Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, 1887-03-06

were under his instructions. Net ut first
he almost broke Shirley's heart by his
criticism. The thought of one great poem
she was 10 write had by this time taken
possassion of her. The master read the
clear soul as if it had been the depths of a
crystal lake.
f'Others have written the epic of battles,
Shirley" he said: ''let your poem be the
epic of peace and progress in history.
When she was Is she wrote some timid
verses for his inspection. He gave them
back all marked aud erased. He had taken
away her finest words, her most sounding
passages. Shirley was intensely angry.
She flung herself on her fathers breast in
a passion.
lie crosses out the hest of everything !
write" she said. cts no Use me trying.
| won't 90 TO school any more"
That evening the master came as usual
to the stone house. BIT the brightest,
sweetest face of all was not there as usual
to greet him.
Where Shirley" asked he.
'You have broken her heart said the
colonel. "Yru cut her poem all to pieces"
A look of keen annoyance, OF pain, cross
ed the fine dark face.
'But | could not help it," he said. 'She
uses too many words. Send her 10 me will
YOU nOt?"
The colonel brought her, leading her by
the hand, her face averted.
''llere she is, Mr.. Morrison said he.
Take her life but spare her, adiectives!'
He laughed and passed down the steps
o,k - .s-H1 SAl;,1,u aud tha pNaStap wore
left alone. Shirley, strong, fearless glrI
though she was, trembled iiom head to
foot. She had never been afraid OF any
thing, hut here was II new tlmidity steal
ing up from her heart and stopping her
throat so she could not speak. As for him
it may he that he trembled too. lie opened
his lips to speak.
''Shirlev," he said. But the words died.
A strange CLEAN passed over his face. His
lips Uuivered mOmentarily, but he sup.
pressed some kind of emotion, and said:
''You are my hest pupil, Shirley; the one
I take most pride IN. l0u are angry III
your teacher. What have | done? Have
| not always been kind and gentle to you:.
Shirley fonnd a voice, somehow, though
it was a voice with n quaver i'll 1t.
ayes, YOU have, Mr.. Morrison. Bnt
will never write anything again. Other
girls write poetry for the school exercises,
They take it ont OF books, and change 1t
over 80 nobody will know it. They hand
it TO YOU, and you say it is nice. ! write
nv verses out of my own head. They are
my own. And you mark them all over.
have torn the paper up. will never write
any more. NeverW
''Just because it was your W and
saw rare promise in it, therefore ! took
pains to show you its faults. Gou use too
much O~rnamentation. You initiate, with
ont knowingit it, other poets You have read.
YOu must learn to he yourself. Come here,
Shirley"
She obeycd, with dOwncast face.
"My dear pupil, | would rather go away
from LinwoOd altogether than to hunt you
or offend YOU. But ] am your teacher.
Don't YOU think, child, that ! know better
than yOu?"
ooh, yes, Mr.. Morrison, | know that.
You have Taught me about more things
than ever knew in the world. | owe
everything To yOu."
And vou will trust me for the future,
will you nOt?' he said.
He put one strong hand softly against
each pink cheek and lifted her face. He
looked down at her with his ~hlack-gray
eyes, eyes 50 like her own, and said:
'Dear girl, YOU do not know how much
yOu have been to me | hated mankind
when | came here. There was not 4 liv-
ing creature ! cared for, or who cared far
me. YOu and your father showed me there
was still truth and honest feeling in the
world, bless your sweet, sunny soul! When
| 90 away, what ever trouble is still 10
come. | shall know | have had some true
friends. some hours that were happy. You
are the best. truest. brightest creature !
ever met. Would / wound yOur tender
soul by so much as a word, do You think:
You are the only Onc-Shirlcy. you are
capable of great things. If | can Judge Of
anything, the time will come when all the
world will praise Won You will write your
poem, and do your work. work such rs
no woman ever did before. | know that.
You will show all men the sweet, deep,
marvellous strength that lies in a wOman's
brain. believe in that, and ! believe in
Won. Your verses will not he feeble and
muddy and narrow-the kind moat women
write. Yours will he the grand, ringing
lines of humanity and free womanhnod.
because I know this, let me give you such
hints as | may. child. Will yon do this
and forgive me?"
Her lips quivcred, hut she was always
ready to confess an error-thc frank, rue
child. She said:
"You are very, very good. Mr.. Morrison;
and | was wrong and foolish. | will do
my best and never give you trouble again.
Forgive me, dear MASTER
81 will bring you a womau's poem and
read it To you tomorrow, Shirley, he said.
''Gather your little Carstones, and we shall
have n picnic in the afternoon down under
the willows by the mill race. will read
YOU Aurora Leigh. Good night, child
He laid his hand carcSSingly upon her
head and slid il down softly over one OF
the fair hraids. Did he press the long, fair
braid TO his lips as he turned TO 90? Well,
who knows? Shirley did not know.
1t was their last quarrel.
From that day a new and tendereT tie
seemed Ia draw them together. The pie
mics, as the children called them, lasted
all through the bright summer days. In
the winter there We're picnics in doors. The
teacher had seemed sOGred and reserved
when he came to LinwOOd. lie had a
bitter sarcastic tongue when disturbed,
which had drawn on him ill-will at first.
But that had chanEed. He had become
gentle and genial. He established a liter
airy society among the ~ruStics, the first one
ever in the village. 1t was turning the
thoughts of the younger people in a better
and higher direction.
He and Shirley read and studied history,
poetry and science. He taught her Greek
and Latin, prose and poetry. The girl,
like himself, had the rare faculty of grasp
ing a thought in y glance. A few words
upon its page would tell its whole story to
her clear, alert brain, They were days Of
perfect happiness and peace. But the girls
thoughts came hack always TO Joan of Arc,
the Maid of DomTemy, the saint and mar
tyr, with the iron helmet pressing upon
her golden hair. 1t was like the motive
in a work ofmusic. She wrote little poems
still, but pow the master criticised them